Hunters and Prey
by The Lilac Elf of Lothlorien
Summary: AU! Post 'Sacrifice! Sam and Dean are on acase in Maryland where Hunters are getting killed in increasingly horrific ways. To complicate matters, Sam is dealing with the after-effects of the final trial and he and Dean are accompanied by Charlie Bradbury and a Food Network obsessed Crowley who is determined to be a good guy. Yeah, you heard right. X-over with NBC's 'Hannibal'
1. Chapter 1

AUTHOR'S NOTES: So looking at a 'favorite tv shows collage' someone did on DeviantArt, I noticed that this particular picture combined Supernatural with NBC's TV show, Hannibal. Creative juices began flowing and in an effort to deal with the SPN season 8 finale, I of course turn to fan fiction.

Now... I love SPN. I think my published stories covers that. So... why do I like Hannibal? Because this TV show covers what I have always found so interesting about the character of Hannibal Lector and that is what was he like _before_ he was incarcerated. The sophisticated doctor, the high-class gentleman... the subtle manipulator who works so well, you don't even realize he's in your head. (Trust me, Lector's going to have a field day with the Winchesters, psychologically speaking). If you haven't been watching the show and love psychological thrillers, check this TV show out. Though if blood makes you squeamish... be warned.

Also...This story is going to have some dark humor and stuff that you're going to be telling yourself you shouldn't laugh at. Laugh, it's okay. I won't say boo.

Final note-With exception to the very first part of the story, I will be referring to Crowley by his demon name rather than his real name, if that makes sense.

* * *

SUPERNATURAL: Hunters and Prey

(X-over w/ NBC's 'Hannibal')

The demon-curing ritual hadn't been completed, but it had progressed enough that Fergus McLeod had the demon, Crowley, on a pretty tight lockdown inside. The foul, twisted thing wasn't fighting at all, but McLeod wasn't about to give it one single bloody inch.

After managing to free himself from the chains and devil's trap, the reformed demon was at least a little relieved the teleportation thing still worked. Ramming a fist into a wall, he narrowly avoided screaming as he felt the bones in his hand break but there was a very sizable dent in the stone. Within a few moments, though, McLeod felt the injury heal and he flexed his hand and fingers, testing that they were back to normal.

Teleportation, check.

Super strength, check.

Invulnerability…not so much.

Quick healing….check… mostly.

Resistant to demon restraints…check, unfortunately.

The question became what to do now? How was he supposed to handle his new situation? Although more importantly, he wondered what he was also vulnerable to. Would salt, iron, or holy water still affect him and if not what did that mean for his future?

Going outside, McLeod stopped dead as he saw Sam on the ground by the '67 Chevrolet Impala with Dean frantically trying to wake him. "Can I help?" the partial demon asked as he approached the two brothers, warily. "I want to help you boys. Like… Like you've helped me."

Dean looked up sharply at that, his face full of pain and desperation. He couldn't speak except to say his brother's name, nodding at the prone form.

McLeod nodded, going to the Winchesters and grabbing them both before popping to the nearest hospital where he promptly passed out.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Two weeks later, Fergus McLeod groaned as he slowly regained consciousness, the sound of slow, steady beeping bringing him further into the world of the living. Blinking, he found himself staring at a woman he'd actually—No, someone _Crowley_ had tried to kill.

Jodie Mills—Sheriff of Sioux Falls, South Dakota—stood in front of the hospital bed, her eyes stern and her face full of promise. "Dean's told me about you saving him and his brother and that you're not a full demon anymore," she said, succinctly. "And now I'm telling you that if I get even an _idea_ that you're going to turn on those boys they won't be the only ones you have to worry about." And with that, she turned and left the room, closing the door behind her with a bit of a slam.

A few hours later, Castiel came into the room, looking troubled. At first the fallen angel did not speak but instead stared at McLeod—or rather at the part demon he likely still thought of as Crowley. "Dean told me that curing you didn't take," Castiel said, finally, his voice its usual calm near-monotone.

"It took enough that I ended up here," McLeod retorted with more of a snap in his voice than he'd intended. "We make quite a pair, don't we? Both of us trying to do the right thing for our kind and we get punished for it. Sucks, doesn't it?" He sat up a bit, wincing as his body ached as he did so. "Was it you or I that stumbled first?" McLeod mused out loud.

Castiel pondered the thought for a moment, weighing the words carefully. Although Crowley still had demonic powers, he, too, had fallen from his esteemed position as the King of Hell. "It does not matter," Cas said, after a while.

"It doesn't?" the demon formerly known as Crowley said, eyebrows raised in clear surprise.

The former angel shook his head once. "You and I have both fallen. You are not the demon you once were. You selflessly saved the Winchesters with no thought of yourself." Considering his words carefully, he went on. "The one of us who finds the strength to get up first must help the other."

McLeod pondered that and finally nodded. He wanted to prove that he was not the same as Crowley and he felt that his best ally to help with that mission was the man standing before him. "By the way…," he said thinking of possible way to prove himself. "You can tell the boys that as far as abilities I DO still have, tearing up all current deals is one of them. You can tell Sam and Dean it's my way of offering a white flag."

That caught the fallen angel off guard and he wasn't sure of what to say to that. Freeing likely thousands of people from their crossroads deals would anger the other demons and they would be gunning for Crowley to kill him and take his place as King of Hell. Without saying anything else, Castiel left the room, heading downstairs to the Intensive Care Unit where Sam was still unconscious.

The scene before him was heartbreaking.

Dean's face was sprouting a bit more than a five o'clock shadow which only served to make him look even more ragged than he already was. He sat right next to his brother's bed, holding Sam's limp hand and talking to him about something or other.

Sam was on a ventilator, a tube down his throat helping him breathe, while IVs delivered medicine and blood to his ravaged system. On Sam's left side, what was left of his arm rested on a pillow, the end currently unbandaged which showed the healing incisions.

When the demon, Crowley, had bitten Sam, that plus the needle injections had caused a severe staph infection mere hours after Sam ended up in the hospital. The infection had caused rapid and devastating necrotizing fasciitis and fearing for Sam's life, the doctors had whisked the hunter into surgery to amputate his arm just at the elbow.

"Dean," Castiel said, quietly, as he approached the bed. He put a hand on his friend's shoulder and tried again. "Crowley wishes to make peace with you and—"

"Crowley can go fuck himself!" Dean growled angrily as he looked up at Cas. "_I_ want Sammy to have his arm back!" The outburst seemed to have broken his inner floodgates and he felt tears falling down his face. Wiping them away, furiously, he touched the stump where his little brother's arm ended. "Sammy… when you…" Dean's voice caught in his throat and he paused a moment before continuing. "Man, this is the second time we've been here, you know? First time, that guy had stabbed you in the back… He'd killed you, but Sammy… this is worse. Last time I knew I'd do anything to get you back and now… Now, I don't know what to do. Sammy, your greatest sin isn't how many times you've let me down. Okay? I mean it. If letting people down is a sin, then that one's all mine. I let you down over and over and somehow you still think I'm worthy of one more shot. I need you, Sammy. I've always needed you. Right now you're all I've got."

Bowing his head, Dean didn't know where the words were coming from, but he spoke them anyway, hoping they'd be heard even if it wasn't by the fallen angel standing across from him. "We screwed up, God. I mean, this is the mother of all fuck-ups. And you know I'll move Heaven and Hell to fix it, just like always…" He looked at his brother and let the tears fall, not bothering to wipe them away. "But I can't do that without Sammy. I know we're out of favors… but if you can manage one more… we could really use some help."

At first, the older Winchester thought maybe he'd imagined it. But after another minute, Dean felt Sam's hand squeeze his and looking at his brother's face, it felt like the entire world was lifted off of his shoulders when Sam's eyes opened. When Sam turned to look at his missing arm and then back at his brother, he looked stricken and there were tears in his eyes. "We'll deal with it, Sammy. Okay? We'll deal with it…together. Just like always…"

* * *

_2 Months Later_

Charlie Bradbury unlocked the door to the Winchester Bunker—as Dean had put it last time they'd spoken—and somehow managed to get inside with her arms loaded down with bags of food and supplies. After locking the door behind her, she headed into the kitchen and stopped at the first bit of counter space she could find.

"I hope that's everything," Crowley said as he came out of the pantry looking… well, bossy for lack of a better term. He was wearing an apron over a pair of black jeans and a long-sleeved black shirt and he seemed annoyed. "Last time I sent you out for supplies you forgot the flour and I had to settle for frozen pie crusts."

"Okay, see…This is why I'm constantly wigged out," Charlie said as she started putting groceries away according to the reformed demon's direction. "All of this is…" But Crowley was already working on food prep and she resigned herself to making coffee and finishing up the muffins he'd started the night before.

The first time she'd met Domestic Crowley, Charlie had nearly had a heart attack right on the spot. And when Sam, Dean, and Castiel had related everything that had happened after the botched third trial, the young woman had promptly asked for a stiff drink.

It hurt to see her boys so beaten down and after a few days of watching Dean brood and drink and Sam brood and… read, Charlie had done a little snooping with the help of Crowley and Castiel and had called Sheriff Jodie Mills who had promptly driven over to help sort the Winchesters out.

Of course it had taken the better part of three weeks to do that. Sam had been in a funk over the whole mess with the trials in general and losing his arm had only made things worse. Jodie had offered to help him figure out how to start adapting to his disability which usually led to Sam hiding behind his laptop or a pile of books.

Dean had been insistant that he and Sam would figure things out and in no time the two of them would be back to hunting and trying to fix everything that had happened.

After having enough of Winchester stubbornness, Jodie had sat both boys down and had a one-on-one with Sam and Dean. Neither Crowley, Castiel, or Charlie knew what was said during the sit-downs—though Bobby Singer's name had come up several times during both occasions—but the three did notice a change in the brothers afterwards.

Sam had agreed to start working with an occupational therapist although he wasn't quite ready to think about the idea of a prosthetic.

Dean had tried to stop hovering over his brother and asking if he needed help but old habits that he'd had almost his entire life were hard to break so he'd instead thrown himself into helping Castiel track down the fallen angels and their graces and training Charlie to be a hunter—as a back-up only, he'd assured Sam when the younger Winchester had looked hurt at the idea, not a replacement.

The timer on the oven brought Charlie out of her revierie and she grabbed a pair of hot pads, pulling the hot muffins out of the oven, setting them on the counter to cool for a bit while she poured coffee for her boys—black for Dean and cream and sugar for Sam.

"Before you go anywhere, missy…" Crowley said, stopping Charlie before she got to the door. "Tell your boys to stay out of the kitchen, alright? I've got something special lined up and I'd like it to remain a surprise."

"Sure. Whatever you say, Mr. Snippy," Charlie snapped, annoyed at Crowley's tone. "Want me to tell them to skip lunch, too? That'll go over great."

Crowley mentally chided himself for sounding demanding and he teased, "Fine. I was going to whip up a batch of homemade marshmallows for your birthday next week, but if you're going to accuse me of being… What was the word? Snippy?"

Charlie gave the demon a mock-glare and took the two mugs of coffee along with a basket of warm muffins and some butter and utensils out to the library.

Dean and Sam were up and just sitting down at their usual table when Charlie came in. She handed over breakfast, getting a raised eyebrow from Dean about the muffins. "Oatmeal muffins? Really?"

"Don't look at me," the young hacker replied, defensively. "Crowley's the one who made 'em." Studying her friends, she warned, "Speaking of which… he said to stay out of the kitchen today. I don't know why, but I'd just do it."

Sam nodded, rubbing what remained of his left arm before absently scratching at the itch that was developing there. "Right. Thanks, Charlie."

"So what are you up to today?" Dean wanted to know as he fired up his own laptop and logged on to check his email.

Charlie shrugged as she sat down in front of her own laptop computer. Since she'd been staying with the boys, she'd sort of avoided going out for stuff like conventions or just to do something fun. But the past day or so, she had been feeling a little antsy. "I guess I'll head back out a little later—do another supply run just in case."

Dean looked from Charlie to Sam and he tried not to react to the intensity with which his brother was scratching at the incision where his arm ended. "Hey, Sammy, why do you go with Charlie? Back her up, okay?"

Sam shook his head, still scratching in between flipping the pages of the book he was reading while snacking on a muffin. "Nah, I'm fine."

Recognizing the comment as withdrawing, Dean pressed the notion a little more, hoping Sam would go along with it, especially since the younger man had been avoiding going out in public. Dean knew his little brother was feeling self-conscious about his missing arm but he was at a loss about how to help Sam deal with it except to try and get him out of the bunker once in a while. Maybe he should try to fake a case or…

"Whoa, Sammy!" Dean exclaimed, as he noticed that Sam had almost scratched his arm raw. "Hey!"

"I'm fine, Dean!" Sam snapped, pulling away as his brother reached over to touch him.

But Dean wasn't about to be discouraged this time, especially since he knew that Sam was putting himself at risk for further infections and he didn't even want to think about what would happen if Sam lost more of his arm. "Look, Sammy, I just—"

"Don't 'Sammy' me, Dean! And why don't you just leave me alone?!" Sam shouted, angrily as he grabbed his empty coffee mug and stormed towards the kitchen.

Dean's eyes widened as he saw his brother reach the door and he tried to shout a warning. "Sammy, stay out of th-!" But it was too late. Dean groaned, even though he couldn't help a small smile as he heard Crowley's angry yelling.

"Oy! What part of 'Stay the bloody Hell out of the kitchen' did you not understand, Moose?!"


	2. Chapter 2

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Okay, issuing a food-related warning on this story. First-I'm not going in to detail on Lector's usual fare. Just thinking about organ meats or offal makes me cringe like Hell. That being said, your typical stuff like pie, steak, and the like-that stuff will be detailed and I'll put a special warning in the author's notes if you need to be worried about drooling on your keyboards.

CHAPTER 2

* * *

Dean was sure he must be dead. He had to be in Heaven because otherwise there was no logical explanation for the night's dinner.

First, there had been a spinach salad that even he'd had to admit was delicious. Then there's been the Asian glazed wings followed by chicken fried steak with twice baked potatoes loaded with cheese, bacon, and green onions.

Then, for dessert… pie. A gorgeous, tender, incredible, deep-dish apple pie flavored with something Dean could guarantee he had never tasted before in his entire life. "Dude…" he said around a mouthful of pie.

Sam was right there with his brother as he polished off his own slice of pie, but as he tried to resist licking the plate, he asked, "Okay… I gotta know something, Crowley. How the Hell did you ever learn to cook like this?"

Crowley grinned as he leaned back in his chair with a glass of scotch in his hand. "You ever wonder how so many cooks and chefs on the Food Network become famous almost overnight?"

The Winchesters exchanged a look with Charlie who seemed as confused about that as they were. "You're saying the people at the Food Network made deals?" Sam asked, not sure he believed it. On the other hand, it did seem unlikely that so many people would have such instant success.

"Not all of them," Crowley countered. "Alton Brown, Bobby Flay… Rachel Ray."

Charlie's eyes widened at that and she said, "Seriously?" Thinking of who she'd watched on Food Network, she mused, "What about Emeril Lagasse?"

The former King of Hell nodded. "One of the first. Then the others started making deals. Next thing I know, I've got about a quarter of the network on the line. Or, rather, I did," he amended hoping the flippancy of his statement didn't encourage Dean to kick him out.

x

After dinner, Sam and Charlie cleaned up while Dean checked the web for any signs of any of the fallen angels or possible other cases. After a few minutes, he called to Sam and Charlie. "Hey, we got a case!"

The other two came in, looking expectant. "What's going on?" Charlie wanted to know. "Ghosts, werewolves… killer bugs?"

"Killer something," Dean muttered with a shrug as he turned the laptop towards his brother and friend. "Email from Garth giving us a heads-up," he added, turning the computer back. "3 bodies sliced and diced… organs missing… and, oh, yeah," he said, grimly as he looked up at the others. "All three were hunters."

Charlie exchanged a look with Sam. "I'm on supplies. Sam, you pack."

Sam just nodded and when Charlie had left the bunker, he looked at Dean who seemed to have been expecting the confrontation. "You're not going to tell me to sit this one out?" Sam asked, confused when Dean just looked at him, calmly. Raising what was left of his left arm a little, Sam sighed and sat down across from his brother. "Charlie and… Crowley can back you up, Dean. Really, I'm… I-I'm okay with being benched. Can't do much hunting with one arm anyway."

Dean considered that and on one hand, he felt the slightest sense of relief that his brother was acknowledging his disability—something Sam had been avoiding the past few weeks. "You're right, Sam," he said, simply. "I mean, Crowley's still good in a fight and Charlie's becoming a good hunter. But if I'm in a corner, I want you there backing me up. You know more than Charlie and you've got the smarts to outwit the baddies. So I'm not saying you're benched." Holding up a hand to stop Sam from saying anything, he added, "I'm telling you to be extra careful. Okay, Sammy?"

Sam nodded and headed to his room to start packing. Grabbing his favorite duffel bag, he managed to unzip it and started grabbing clothes and weapons, shoving them inside. He'd hid his disappointment with Dean, but really, he hadn't felt like he was ready for a real case yet. Hell, right now he hated just going into public to go to the store. He hated the stares and the questioning looks. And he hated how hard everything was now. Even something as simple as putting on socks or a shirt took more time than usual.

How could he possible back his brother up if something was attacking them? And how could Sam possibly defend himself if Dean or anyone else wasn't there to back _him_ up?

* * *

_Winchester, West Virginia_

Bryce Turner sat on a fallen tree studying the old, worn journal in his hands. For two days he'd been camping out in the woods, trying to figure out just what exactly had been attacking and killing other demon hunters. So far he'd ruled out vampires, wendigos, and werewolves but that still left more than a dozen possible candidates.

The worst part was that Bryce had started developing a theory that whoever was killing hunters wasn't a monster, strictly speaking, but rather an ordinary human with a literal taste for blood.

Closing the book with a weary sigh, he stood and headed back to the trail and followed it until he reached his truck and tossed his bag in the back before getting into the cab and turning the key in the ignition.

As he drove towards the house he was staying at, Bryce pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number, waiting until the other end picked up.

"Hello."

"Dean Winchester? It's Bryce Turner. I saw you got the same email I got from Garth?" Bryce said, watching the road and the tree line.

"Any leads yet?" Dean asked. "Sam and I are on the way now… with company," he added, not exactly sounding happy about the fact. "Listen is, uh… is there a good out-of-the-way place we can meet and grab some grub? Preferably some place that's not super crowded?"

Bryce thought for a moment and finally replied, "I'm at 5236 Strawberry Drive. Look for the oak tree in the front yard. I'll pick up the food, okay?"

"Sounds good," Dean agreed. "See you soon, man."

Bryce hung up and headed towards the grocery store to pick up supplies before returning to his house.

xxxx

The Impala rumbled into the driveway and stopped just as Bryce slapped the steaks on the charcoal grill around back. The house had been his aunt's and when she'd died a year ago, he'd moved in, though he mostly just used the place as a crash pad in between cases. Calling out to his fellow hunters, he heard approaching footsteps and looked up. "Welcome to the Turner Steakhouse," Bryce said, cheerily. "Hope that works for everyone."

"Sounds awesome," Dean assured him. Nodding at the others, he asked, "Mind if we stay here, or—"

Bryce shook his head as he covered the steaks and set his tongs aside. "Knock yourselves out. I pretty much crash on the couch so _mi casa, e su casa_."

"Well, in that case," Crowley said, grabbing the bags from the others. "Point me to the kitchen. I'll get working on everything else." When Bryce pointed, he headed inside to start cooking, leaving the actual hunters to talk shop.

"So how'd you get the King of the Crossroads on a leash, Winchester?" Bryce inquired, passing out beers from the cooler nearby. Popping the top on his own beer, he smirked as he added, "I mean, his he your little pet or what?"

Dean had shed his jacket along with Charlie and Sam and after a moment, he unfolded the story, though he did omit some of the details. "So tell us about the case," Dean said, changing the subject when he noticed Bryce staring at Sam's left arm.

Bryce looked away as he checked the steaks one last time before removing them to the clean platter nearby on a table, feeling bad that he'd been caught staring. "No idea. The tri-state area has had… over 43 gruesome murders in the past few months. No victim profiles anyone can figure, but they're all bloody. _Really_ bloody. I've seen bodies ripped apart, but these murders… Someone's got to stop this thing."

As they headed inside where Crowley was putting out bowls of salad and warm pasta along with a bottle of Worcestershire sauce, Sam started thinking about cover stories. "So what's our play? FBI, local cops…?"

Bryce looked doubtful at that. As he doled out the perfectly medium rare t-bone steaks, he explained the problems. "FBI's been sniffing around all of this for months now. They've interviewed and re-interviewed people, trying to figure out what kinds of sick, twisted killers are running around out there." As he passed another round of beers out, he said, "I gotta tell ya… I think honesty is the way to go here."

Charlie looked incredibly skeptical at that. "Wait, so you're saying we should just go up to the police and FBI and tell them that we're here hunting monsters? Isn't that… like, incredibly risky?"

Dean looked reluctant as well and backed Charlie up. "Yeah, uh… what's to stop the feds and cops from locking all of us up in the nuthouse?" He looked at Sam who seemed especially nervous at the prospect of being in a mental ward and tried not to think of the last time his brother had been in that situation.

But Bryce seemed confident that the truth was the better was to go. "With all the horrific deaths… I don't think they'd shoot down the idea of monsters."

Charlie leaned forward, interested. "What makes you say that?"

"You see some of the things I've seen lately…" Bryce explained, grimly. "It's easier to believe that some monster's behind it rather that a normal human."

x

After dinner, the hunters and reformed demon made a plan. Bryce would go with Charlie and the two would try and check out some of the crime scenes. Looking at Dean, Bryce thought for a moment and said, "Dean, there's a profiler named Will Graham that's trying to figure out the killers. Why don't you go talk to him?

"Sounds fun," Dean acquiesced. Looking at his brother, he said, "Sammy, you go talk to that shrink Bryce was talking about." He could see Sam was heavily reluctant to talk to a psychiatrist—even if it was just to get facts about a case—and Dean have him a reassuring look. "Just relax, Sam. And who knows—maybe it'll help."

Sam nodded, stiffly, even though he was incredibly uncomfortable about the whole idea. He particularly hated that Dean hadn't been exactly subtle about the fact that he needed a shrink. Still… as much as he hated admitting it—especially to himself—maybe an outsider's opinion on what he'd been through these past 10 years might yield some insight.

* * *

_Baltimore, Maryland_

The townhouse was elegant—a brick affair that stood right next door to a stone church. Inside, the first floor was set up as an elaborate sitting room connected to an office that doubled as Hannibal Lector's personal library, with his favorite books on the upper catwalk of the room.

As he began brewing a cup of Irish breakfast tea with hot water from his electric kettle—and finding himself surprised as he observed his appointment schedule and noted it was empty today—Lector paused as the front doorbell rang. Answering it, he paused as he studied the man before him.

He was about 30 with his hair reaching his shoulders and he wore jeans, a flannel shirt over what appeared to be a t-shirt and a jacket that seemed to have seen better days. The younger man's eyes indicted he'd been through some sort of ordeal—possibly more than one—something that was clearly evidenced by the fact that his left arm was missing just above the elbow.

"I'm sorry…" Lector said, allowing his confusion to show through ever so briefly. "Did we have an appointment? I didn't have anything on my calendar for today."

Sam Winchester shook his head and hoped he didn't sound as stupid as he did in his head. "No, I, uh, didn't have an appointment. I-I'm kinda checking out some of the murders happening in the tri-state area."

Lector ran through his mental index of all the police officers and FBI agents he'd encountered over the past months and he could not recall this young man's face. "I see," he said, simply, standing aside and letting the stranger inside before showing him into the kitchen. "Tea?"

"Uh, yeah. That'd be great, thanks," Sam said, hesitating slightly as he shrugged off his jacket before entering the incredibly open office. He looked around, taking in his surroundings and found that he suddenly didn't feel as nervous as before. After sitting down, he took the cup of tea Lector offered.

The doctor sat opposite Sam, looking interested in him as he sipped his own tea. "Tell me what brings you to my office. You said you were investigating the murders that have been taking place lately. But you're neither with the police nor the FBI."

Sam sipped the tea before setting the cup down on the table next to him. "No, I'm not," he said, simply, not sure of how to proceed.

"Do you investigate killers often?" Lector inquired, his interest in the young man before him piqued even more. "You have a fascination with gruesome deaths?" From what he could tell, the stranger was all too familiar with death but he seemed incredibly reluctant to share information. "Shall we start with introductions first?" Lector offered, trying to put his guest more at ease. Holding out a hand and he leaned forward, he smiled as he said, "Dr. Hannibal Lector."

Sam shook the doctor's hand and tried to reciprocate the smile as he said, "Sam Winchester." As he leaned back, however, he unconsciously winced as he bumped his left arm slightly.

Never missing a thing when it came to patients—or people interviewing him for one thing or another—Lector caught the flicker of pain on Sam's face. "Phantom pain?" he asked, curiously. Sam hesitated for only a second before nodding. "Recent injury?" Sam nodded again and there was an interesting twitch in his right hand, as though he wanted to reach over and touch the partial limb. Lector found himself wondering how often Sam started scratching the end of his arm—an itch he'd never be able to satisfactorily scratch. "You are not bothered by pain? It is common for you?"

There was something about Hannibal Lector's gaze that once it was on you full force, you felt compelled to speak. For Sam it was no different and after a moment, he began his story. "My mother was killed by a demon when I was 6 months old. Same demon killed my dad when I was 22. I've lost very close friends, people I've fought alongside… My brother and I lost a friend we've literally known all our lives. He was a second father, pretty much. All that death because my brother and I hunt monsters for what we laughingly call 'a living'."

When the doctor remained silent, Sam started over in greater detail, talking about everything from his mother's death to lying in the hospital after losing his arm due to a nasty staph infection. When he was done, he waited for Lector to say something—likely along the lines of threatening to lock him away in a mental hospital. When he continued to remain silent, Sam asked, "You're not going to say something about me being a raging lunatic? That I should be locked up? That I'm a danger to myself and others?"

Lector shook his head, reassuringly. "On the contrary. Strange as it may sound I find much of what you tell me to be comforting." Taking in Sam's incredibly confused look, he explained. "I have seen the evil that humans inflict on one another. The idea that some of those people may have been compelled by forces they have no control over is something I find much more appealing than the notion that others inflict pain and suffering for no purpose other than they want to."

"You're probably the first person I've met who's comforted by the idea of demons, wendigos, and werewolves," Sam said with a dry smile. "Most people think me and Dean are nuts."

"I think you and your brother are warriors," Lector replied, admiration in his tone. "You fight back the darkness but for you that's not a metaphor. It's a real, physical entity that you confront every day. How can you live the life you do and not let the madness in every now and then?"


	3. Chapter 3

AUTHOR'S NOTES: So there's a chunk of the story in italics which is meant to be a flashback. Just wanted to point that out. Also, Alton Brown gets most of the credit for the coq au vin, chicken stock, roast duck, and pan fried potatoes. Though using boneless chicken thighs for the first is my own variation.

Now, I know Crowley may seem a bit OOC in this chapter but his marbles are kinda scrambled, so… Also, I know we all remember Sam having Lucifer in head for about half or more of season 7. Well, Crowley is going to have Meg in his head… and Bobby, too, later on.

And one more heads-up before I let y'all get to reading. This chapter contains spoilers for the most recent episode of 'Hannibal'-Buffet Froid. If you haven't seen it, I would watch before reading. Although it's not ENTIRELY necessary, it just makes things easier.

Enjoy, folks!

Chapter 3

* * *

Although it was well after noon, Lecter still found himself wanting to know more about the Winchesters and the world of demons and monsters that they lived in. To that end, he invited Sam to join him at his favorite bistro about 10 minutes away. Sam, not wanting to appear rude, accepted.

The restaurant was quiet as the last of the lunch crowd trickled out and the two men took a seat at a table near the back next to the open kitchen. When Sam seemed interested at the location, Lecter replied, "Good food and theater go together. What can't they be the same thing?"

"I guess I'm just used to diners, fast food, and take-out," Sam said after a while. "Hunting doesn't exactly bring in the money. Besides, I don't know how long Dean would last if he had to live without bacon cheeseburgers," he added with a dry smile.

Lector smiled as well. He was beginning to like Sam Winchester. The young man was smart and very sharp. "And what about you, Sam?" he asked as the waitress brought menus and glasses of water. "What are your culinary tastes?"

Sam thought about that for a moment. He knew that Dean didn't really get the appeal of salads or healthy eating but Sam also knew that his brother was always curious why his younger brother stuck to rabbit food whenever possible. "I kinda try to lean more towards salads and the healthier stuff. A few weeks before I left for Stanford, I started having what seemed to be arthritis pain. Dad just thought it was growing pains, but it turned out to be—"

"Gout," Lecter finished, nodding knowingly. It was interesting for someone so active to have such an illness, but without a proper diet, gouts could happen to even the most fit of individuals.

"Dean doesn't know and I never figured out the best way to tell him," Sam concluded. "I haven't had an attack in years and I always try to stay as diligent as possible with my meds."

The doctor's expression turned sympathetic as he studied Sam. "It must be hard to keep something like that from your brother. I can't imagine a secret like that is easy to keep." The more he heard about Sam's life, the more Lecter wondered about the family dynamic between the brothers and how many secrets the two kept from one another. It would also be very interesting to see what would happen if those secrets were revealed.

xxxxxx

In the kitchen of Bryce Turner, Crowley worked on dinner. Tonight, he was taking one of his favorite chicken recipes from Mr. Alton Brown—coq au vin—and tweaking it to make it a little speedier. The flavor was almost exactly the same, although he had to admit he enjoyed the light fruitier flavors of white wine as opposed to red wine.

"Well, look at you…" Meg said as she walked up to him, smiling smugly as she leaned against the counter. "It's the Queen of Hell. And look… you've even got a 'kiss the cook' apron. You're practically domesticated, aren't you?"

"You're dead," Crowley said, quickly as he turned to the young woman. "I remember that part quite vividly."

Meg straightened up as she walked around the sort-of-demon as she spoke. "Yes, you did. Or did you? Am I really back or am I just some part of your mind playing tricks on you?" Leaning in close, she spoke in Crowley's own voice as she said, "You can't keep me buried forever. How long do you think you can hold me back before you break?"

"HEY! CROWLEY!"

Never before had Crowley been more relieved to hear Dean Winchester shouting his name. He whirled around, unaware that he was still holding the chef's knife in his hand until the older Winchester said, "You're not going to use that, are you?"

"Use what?" Crowley asked, confused. When Dean pointed to the knife, Crowley quickly set it down before replying, "Only if you're a boneless chicken thigh." Watching as Dean headed for the fridge to grab a beer, he pushed the demon down as far as possible, feeling suddenly worried when again the demon showed no signs of resisting.

Dean just nodded as he sat at the table, eyeing Crowley shrewdly as he continued food prep for dinner. When Sam had insisted that the Winchesters 'adopt' the former King of Hell, Dean had thrown a fit, reciting the entire laundry list of everything 'the wretched son of Hellspawn' had done to them. Sam had countered with everything Crowley had done to 'help' them but that was an incredibly slim argument.

In the end, it had come down to Castiel and Jodie Mills who had finally convinced Dean to take Crowley in, even though it went against everything in Dean's nature. And yet there was one thing that Dean couldn't deny, and that was the fact that if it hadn't been for Crowley's consistently fabulous cooking, Sam probably wouldn't be in as good shape as he was.

In the hospital, Sam had all but stopped eating a day or two after waking up and finding out about his arm. He'd eaten just enough to keep the doctors from putting him on an IV, but never more than that. Dean had finally gotten his brother out after promising that he could get Sam fed if he was at home but the first week back at the bunker, he'd stopped eating all together and had even ripped out the IV Dean had put in stating that he should have finished the trials and died like he was supposed to.

That had nearly pushed Dean over the edge. He'd lost his parents, Ellen and Jo, Bobby… and the idea that his brother wanted to die was just too much.

It was then that Crowley had come in with a mug of homemade stock and handed it—somewhat roughly—to Sam with the order to drink it or wear it. Sam had been sure Crowley was bluffing but downed the stock anyway.

Stock had led to soup which had led to Sam getting back to regular meals, to Dean's incredible relief.

"In case you're wondering," Crowley said, suddenly, breaking Dean's revierie. "—I'm not planning on betraying you. Any of you."

Dean nodded once and then asked, "So uh… then what was that little zone-out you did?" Although, in all honesty, it wasn't too surprising. In fact, Dean had his suspicions that—like Sam almost two years ago—Crowley wasn't alone in his head. Catching the demon's look, he knew his suspicions were correct. With a nod, he asked another question, "We need to start worrying about you?"

'_Yes. In fact, you should kill me right now,'_ Crowley thought but he shook his head. "I'm fine," he assured Dean.

"Uh-huh," Dean muttered, going back to his beer before pulling out his laptop and firing it up.

xxxxxxxx

When Sam got back to the house around 3 in the afternoon, he found Dean in the dining room, working on his computer. "Hey," Sam said as he pulled out his own laptop and fired it up. "So it turns out we may have more than one monster around here."

Dean nodded as he sipped his beer before pushing the bottle towards his brother. "Yeah, I know. Latest fugly looks like a wraith but we've also got a werewolf and God only knows what else." When Sam downed the rest of the beer in one go, Dean studied Sam closely. "Dude… What, things go that bad talking to the shrink?"

Shaking his head, the younger Winchester tried to think of the best way to explain but finally, he said, "Actually… I kinda told him everything."

There was a moment or two when all Dean could do was stare incredulously at his brother. "Come again?" he said, not sure he'd heard right. The plan had just been to drop the bombshell that monsters were real, not spill their whole life's story! And besides, it was one of the big Winchester Rules—Don't tell strangers (particularly shrinks and cops) about everything, only the absolute essentials. "Sam, how could you just spill everything?"

"I-It wasn't like I really had a choice, Dean," Sam explained. When his brother looked skeptical at that, Sam shrugged. "It was like… he had this gaze and I just… started talking. And I couldn't stop. It was kinda weird, actually. I don't know if Dr. Lecter is like that with everyone, but with me… I'm sorry, Dean. I shouldn't have told him everything."

Dean shrugged it off, even though his gut was telling him this would come back to bite them in the ass later. Standing, he grabbed two more beers from the fridge and handed one to Sam who had ditched his jacket. "How's the arm?"

Sam rubbed the partial limb a bit self-consciously and shrugged in response.

* * *

"_Have you thought about a prosthetic?" Lector asked during a magnificent lunch of beef tenderloin Carpaccio and frisee salad. "Surely that would make the work you and your brother do easier for you? There are some incredible advancements in technology."_

_Sam shifted uneasily in his chair as the waitress brought refills for his club soda and Lecter's wine. "Uh… that's really… not possible right now. I don't have the money for it, so…" He didn't say anything else, but he wished that he wasn't out in public. He hated feeling the stares from the other patrons and he could almost hear the whispered questions._

_Lecter could tell that Sam didn't feel at ease being among people and asked, "Is this the first time you've been in public since losing your arm?"_

_Sam shook his head as he chewed a bite of his salad and after swallowing, he replied, "Not exactly. I've, uh… I've been seeing an occupational therapist but usually in the evening… when the office isn't really busy." _

"_You feel uncomfortable because of your disability," the doctor observed. When Sam nodded, he added, "I can't imagine how hard this must be for you. But you can't avoid the world, Sam. Sooner or later, you must rejoin it…whether you want to or not."_

* * *

Watching as his little brother turned his attention to his computer, Dean found himself again worried. Sam was withdrawing even after a just a day out of the world he'd been in for the past two months and it wasn't a good thing. Maybe Sam _did_ need to start seeing a shrink on a regular basis… someone who knew his history and what he was going through.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The kitchen of Dr. Hannibal Lecter was filled with the intoxicating aroma of roasting poultry—specifically, duck which he'd dry-aged himself before putting it in the oven to roast.

On the counter, vegetables were prepped and ready to be steamed until they were perfectly al dente and redskin potatoes were chopped and sitting in a container of water, waiting to be sautéed to a mouthwatering golden brown.

Hearing someone enter the room, Lecter looked up to see his friend and patient, Will Graham, come in carrying a bottle of wine. "Will. You're earlier than I'd expected," the psychiatrist said with a note of surprise. Considering his earlier conversations with Sam Winchester, Lector found himself wondering if the young man's brother had indeed spoken to Will.

Will nodded and sat down at the counter on one of the bar stools before setting down the wine bottle and after a moment, he asked, "Do you believe in monsters?"

Lecter smiled as he took the wine and placed it in the refrigerator. "You've been talking to Dean Winchester," he said, slightly amused. When Will seemed caught off guard by that, he added, "His brother came to see me. We talked and he told me about the world the two of them live in." Facing Will, he answered the question directly. "Yes. I believe there are monsters. I can't help but wonder if that may be why you and Jack Crawford are suddenly dealing with an abundance of gruesome murders."

"I hadn't thought of that," Will admitted, though now that the theory had been posed, it was entirely possible. Surely an ordinary _human_ couldn't be responsible for all the death he'd seen lately….

Ever the astute observer, Lecter noticed that his friend seemed more relaxed and rational than he had been lately. "You seem better today, Will," the doctor commented. "Well-rested, calmer…"

"That's actually the, uh…the other reason I'm early," Will explained as he watched Lector sauté the potatoes in melted duck fat along with shallots and garlic. "You remember last week I had an MRI?"

Lector nodded, recalling when Will told him about the brain scan after getting worried about the latest bout of sleepwalking. "I remember," he said, reaching for his pepper mill and grinding the fragrant spice onto the potatoes. "What were the results?"

"Encephalitis."

The answer made Lecter look up, sharply. He'd considered the possibility—there had been a fascinating scent coming from Will recently, a fevered sweetness. But the confirmation of the disease was also a bit alarming, especially considering the idea of how Will had been initially infected and more importantly who else might have been exposed.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx


End file.
